


Panic

by Eruphadriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eruphadriel/pseuds/Eruphadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen suffers in silence from the effects of his time in Kinloch Hold. It’s his deepest secret. That is, until panic overtakes him right in front of the Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panic

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: As someone with panic disorder, I know what a panic attack feels like (in fact, I had one just yesterday morning). I tried to use language that someone without PD or who hasn’t experienced a panic attack before can understand, but that can be difficult to do. I hope it reads well. My apologies for the length, but panic attacks can last up to twenty minutes and it didn’t feel right cutting it short to convenience the reader.
> 
> I also want to note that panic attacks are not attractive. They are not easy to watch, and they are not easy to go through. Ugly-crying, vomiting, fainting, swearing, repeating oneself hundreds of times, screaming, flailing, and accidentally hurting oneself or others can happen (and has happened to me before). They can be ugly, scary, embarrassing, and I did not avoid that side of things in this piece. Stimming is also something I added to it, as it’s something I personally experience.
> 
> I find that Cullen is painted in a very attractive, always perfect, ‘the new DA poster boy’ way in the fandom. But knowing that he’s had panic attacks (as confirmed by World of Thedas Vol. II) has changed the way I look at him. I know that seeing me having a panic attack has drastically changed the way some people look at me. In this fic, Cullen is not pretty. He is not perfect. He is as realistic as can write. I’m not going to apologize for how I write this.
> 
> It is not pretty. It is not perfect. It is as real as I can get it. And if you’re uncomfortable with that, maybe you should think about how it feels to deal with panic attacks every day.

She was  _supposed_  to be marking down the Inquisition’s new encampments in the Emerald Graves. He was  _supposed_  to be preparing his report for her, summarizing all that had occurred while she was away. They were  _meant_  to be in the war room, settling old problems and listing new ones, planning for their trip to Halamshiral, and recovering from the blows they took at Adamant.

 _“But I’m the Inquisitor.”_  Triss had slid her hand through the soft fur of his mantle.  _“I can do whatever I please.”_

Devilish. Teasing. Ultimately, convincing. As if Cullen needed to be  _persuaded_  to kiss her.

Their breastplates clacked together. Triss had no time to change before Josephine had summoned the war council. Well, technically, she did have time. But this was more important.

The air was  _gold_. Pure, spun  _gold_. Sunlight flooded through the windows and illuminated a hundred thousand strands of yellow in the stone walls. It glimmered across their armour and made a halo of his hair. Dust mites danced around them, aglow, alight, twirling through the bits of rainbow the glass windows threw across the floor.

“You were gone for far too long.” His words were delivered on a growl, chastising. He tipped her chin up and pressed another kiss to her grinning mouth.

“Was I, now? Did you stay up all night, praying for my safe return like the good Chantry boy you are? Stay at the window like a lost puppy?” Triss wound her fingers through his hair. “Or did you just miss my perfect arse?”

The soft smack of their lips filled the empty corridor. A warm, gloved hand cupped the back of her neck, and he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Cullen had grown bolder, it seemed, since their first (and last) kiss on the battlements before she left for the west not two months prior. A greeting and farewell in one. Her head swam, and she didn’t have time to wonder how long he had been planning that; she was too preoccupied with how long she had been waiting for this, the words  _finally_  and  _please_ and  _at last_  drowning out every other thought.

“Did you miss me that much?” she teased between kisses.

“More. Did  _you_ miss me?”

Triss nodded. His lips stole the words right from her mouth. She threw her arms around his neck, knuckles of her gauntlets grazing the wall against which Cullen leaned. All the mornings she had awoken in anticipation only to realize where she was, and where he was not, all accumulated in her mind. A buildup of disappointment, of weeks riding  _away_ from where she wanted to be the most, of dreams so vivid they left her gasping and trying to be discreet in her ministrations to a man who wasn’t there.

And now, here, in his arms, it felt like nothing. Like the weight of her longing for his company had been lifted the moment she set eyes on him in the courtyard. This airy high that frazzled her brain and made her head dizzy... All because he kissed her.

A sound reached their ears. The soft whisper-click of heels. The rasp of a quill against parchment. The swish of fine silks. It meant one thing. One  _woman_.

“Josephine.” The name fell from Cullen’s lips, floating up into the quiet in a gasp as Triss grabbed his hand and spun.

Her heart pounded and she prepared for the thrashing she’d get at the hand of their ambassador if she was late for yet  _another_ meeting. Triss held her breath, searching,  _scouring_ the sunlit corridor for  _something_ – for  _anything_ – that would conceal –

Her boots squeaked across the stone floor as she dragged Cullen towards the broom closet. Triss threw the door open.

“Uh...”

“What?” she challenged, and yanked him into the cramped space filled with bottles and buckets. “Suddenly shy? Don’t act as if you weren’t pressed up against me not three seconds ago.”

“But –“

Triss shut the door softly behind them just as another opened. It was pitch black but for a slat of gilded light that pierced beneath the threshold and slashed across their boots. Chest to chest they stood, Cullen’s shallow panting stirring her hair, Triss’s arms locked around his waist, Josephine’s shadow darkening the threshold as she passed them, humming quietly. The Inquisitor’s eyes were shut. She listened. A door opened, hinges screaming, and shut with a thunderous boom.

Triss let out a long exhale. “I think we’re –“

”O...Open the door.”

“Why? Afraid of the dark, Commander?” The Inquisitor hummed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His jaw was tight beneath her lips.

“Now, Triss.” The command was breathless, hardly any force behind it but the flimsy power of fear.

She reached out, fingers blindly searching for the handle. All she found was splintery wood.

“I–“ A sharp inhale cut the sentence short.

“Cullen?”

“I... c-can’t breathe.” Something smacked his breastplate. His hand? “My heart, it – My chest h-h... _hurts_. Please, just... Open the door, Triss. O-Open it.”

She found the handle and tried it. And she tried again.

“I think the door’s locked.”

“What?” he cried.

“Calm down. I just need to find a pin or –“

His hand was on her shoulder, then the shelves slammed into her back. Triss nearly toppled over as Cullen shoved her aside and crashed against the door. His pauldron cracked loud as lightning against the heavy wood. Her shouts were lost amidst the shatter of bottles, the pound of his arm against the door, and his own trembling rendition of the Chant of Light.

“Cullen, just relax! I can –“

”– I, ah! I just n-need to... To... To calm  _down_ and... A-All that existed w...was  _silence_. Then the Voice o-of the M-Maker rang... rang out – Oh... Right... I, I can d-do thi-thi... The f-fir-first Word... Oh, Triss,  _please_ help m-me – A-and His Word became all that m- _might_ be.”

“I’m trying, Cullen, but you need to let me through.”

“I can’t breathe, Triss  _please_ help me I can’t breathe.” All the strength had fled from his voice, shaking,  _cowering_. The words were slurred around the edges, carefully picked, spoken slowly so as to avoid anything sudden.

There was a great  _crack!_  and the world was golden again.

Cullen burst from the closet, throwing the door aside. It barely clung to the frame. Triss followed behind, glancing back at the shards of glass that littered the closet floor behind her. An ache pounded up her neck from where she had hit a tall shelf.

When the Inquisitor turned back, she found Cullen pacing the floor, back and forth with hardly enough space for him to turn. The cycle so tight that he practically walked in a circle. His gloved hands grappled at his throat. He threw his coat to the ground and seized the straps of his breastplate.

“H-Help me  _please Maker just help me please Triss just help me help me please._ ”

“Okay!” she cried, trying the clasps that secured his breastplate. “Stay still.”

In his defence, Cullen  _was_ still for a moment. Then he swatted at her hands and resumed his worried pacing.

“Why is this happening, why  _now_ , why  _today_ , why with  _you_. Wh-Why...” Cullen tore at his armour and threw it to the floor. It landed with a deafening clatter and sent Triss scrambling back out of its path. His tunic clung to his chest, damp and dark with sweat.

Anxiety coiled in her belly, cold and sinewy. “Tell me what you need, Cullen.”

The commander halted and stared at her for a second. No... Not  _at_ her. He looked right through her, his eyes a muddled mess of gold-flecked hazel, his face blanched deathly ashen. Cullen’s hands shook, and he ripped his gloves off.

“I...” He extended the word into a quivering moan of raw fear. “I... n-n-need... I don’t know! I don’t know what I need!”

“You said your chest hurt,” ventured Triss. “Do you need to see the herbalist?”

Cullen stumbled backwards, cupping his hands over his nose and mouth, chest heaving with every panting breath. He fell against the wall and braced his elbows on his knees. A curl of blond hair fell over his forehead. Cullen’s gaze flickered across the floor, as if the shadows that dusted the corridor slipped over the ground and swept up to overwhelm him. His eyes were wide as saucers, wider still as another wave of panic seemed to wash over him.

When he didn’t reply, Triss took a careful step forward. “Cullen?”

He was perfectly still. Eyes shut. She thought it was over.

Then Cullen bolted past her and resumed his frantic pacing.

“No I can’t. I can’t I–“

”What  _can’t_ you do, Cullen?”

“Stay still. Speak. Move. I can’t. Triss, I can’t  _do this again_. This time is bad. This... I...” He raked his fingers through his hair and grabbed a fistful, the movement so violent that Triss feared he would hurt himself. “I can’t say it I can’t if I say it that makes it true.”

Every word came on the tail of the one before it, no pause in between, a desperate gasp accompanying every period.

“I... I feel...” Cullen opened and closed his fists, nails leaving red crescent indents in his palms. “I feel  _sick_. And my heart it.” He flapped his hands as if flicking water from them, his wrists snapping. “It hurts. It’s in my throat.”

“That’s impossi–“

”I know!” he shouted. “I know, Triss! I... Ah! I think I’m going to be sick.”

He fell back against the wall, shivering like a leaf caught in a storm. Moans of horror and nausea and gasping desperation fell from his lips. He cussed. He whimpered half-words that morphed into snarls of frustration. He gripped his throat. He twisted his hands.

She reached out for one of his hands, which now blurred with the flapping motion, but Triss could only grab hold of his upper arm.

“Cullen, if you’re sick, you need to see the  _herbalist_. And if you refuse, then it can’t be as bad as it seems. I’ll come with y– Cullen!”

Triss broke off as he jerked out of her grip. “I’ll go myself,” he decided, and stormed away.

The doors crashed loudly as he shut them, and the Inquisitor was left alone in the bright corridor. Triss blinked dumbly for a moment. Did that... actually happen? She had never seen Cullen so afraid, so...  _panicked_. As if his life were being threatened right there.

This man, whose austerity remained even when they were rushing the citizens of Haven down the summer pilgrimage path, who remained calm during Adamant even as the dragon tore the fortress to pieces, who quelled her  _own_ fears whenever her mark snapped and sizzled (despite his history with magic)... This man who was her foundation, terrified by what seemed like nothing.

Triss stooped and picked up his coat. She ran her fingers through its sable furs, staring at it as if it held the answers she sought. But there was only one person who could answer her questions. And he was already on his way to the herbalist.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, Commander, but I can’t find anything wrong with you.”

Cullen clenched his hands into fists. Even  _that_ seemed like too much effort, his entire body slumping with a sudden, dizzying fatigue. “There must be  _something_. My heart doesn’t just start pounding on its own accord – nor anything  _else_ I described.”

The herbalist tapped his stubbly chin. “Perhaps it does, ser.”

“What?”

“Perhaps it’s all in your head.”

The commander narrowed his eyes. “If it were in my  _mind_ , then how do you explain what happened to my  _body_?”

The herbalist leaned against his desk and opened his palms to him. “Why does a noblewoman see blood and collapse? Because her body decided to shut down? No. Because her mind told it to. Because the blood  _triggered_ something in her mind that sent panic thr–“

”Enough.” The word was a growl. “Can you fix it?”

“Always with the  _fix it_.” The mutter nearly eluded Cullen. The herbalist sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “If the root of the problem is in your mind, then there’s nothing I can  _give_ you for it. Nothing to prevent this from happening again, at least.”

“Then what  _use_ are you?”

The herbalist straightened and frowned. “I’ll write you a note to the Inquisitor. She may let you take the day to recuperate.”

Cullen waved his hand dismissively. “That won’t be necessary –“

”– since he already has my permission.”

The two men glanced up to see Triss standing in the doorway, cloak in-hand. Embarrassment flushed through Cullen, and he looked away as the Inquisitor stepped inside.

A new wave of panic hit him at the sight of her. The last time he saw her... What did she think of him? Of what he did? With painful shame, he recalled how he had shouted at her. The begging her for aid. The pacing.  _The hand flapping_. Cullen resisted the urge to get up and bolt out of the room.

“Can you give us a moment?” she asked the herbalist, who nodded and retreated into the next room – where a recruit suffered from a bellyache.  _Too many jellied pig’s feet_.

Triss settled into the chair opposite the examination table, upon which Cullen sat. He felt very much like a child up there, but the herbalist had insisted. Of course, it was hardly necessary by the time the commander had arrived there for him to check his vital signs. He had waited an entire twenty minutes outside for the symptoms to subside before reporting them.

Before Triss could say anything, Cullen gestured to the entryway. “We really should have someone fix that door. The lock must be broken. And while I’ve their attention, I should like the builders to tidy the stairwell leading to your chambers. You may be as modest as you like, but I won’t have it in disrepair – especially if I plan on using it more often. N-Not that I’m... I’m  _planning_ on doing that. Well, I have  _thought_ of it. I just – Right, what I meant was –“

”While they’re at it,” Triss cut in casually, “they should patch the roof over your loft. Unless you  _want_ to catch pneumonia. Winter’s coming, Cullen.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m perfectly fine.”

“Now  _you’re_ the one being modest. Or do you enjoy waking up covered in snow?” Triss leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Or do you dislike being closed into such a tight space?”

Cullen wrung his hands together. Panic filled his throat, too  _full_ too  _much_... It would start all over again. It was too difficult to calm down. He had to  _stop it_. He was in a state, teetering between calm and that... that feeling of impending  _death_. He squeezed one hand until his bones cracked and his knuckles turned white, focussing on the pain –

One warm hand touched his. The commander looked up to meet Triss’s gaze.

“You know, I was in Kirkwall around the same time as you. I’m certain we crossed paths before; I was always at the Chantry, after all. But not... Not on that day. I was in the Lowtown alienage when it –“ She bit her lip. “I was terrified. I ran to Darktown and hid until it was over. I thought everything was fine afterwards. A few nightmares here and there – nothing that a few sleeping draughts couldn’t fix. I wasn’t near the explosion. I couldn’t have been affected by it.”

Triss ran her thumb over his knuckles. “It wasn’t until I returned to Ostwick and someone decided to set off fireworks one night that I... realized what the explosion had done to me. In my mind, I was back in Kirkwall, listening to my friends...”

She turned away for but a moment, then forced herself to look him in the eye.

“I still get frightened sometimes. If someone drops a book, my heart hammers. The Conclave... I never told you about that, did I? Let’s just say, I know what you were feeling back there.”

Cullen shut his eyes. “It wasn’t Kirkwall.”

“Pardon?”

“It was Kinloch Hold, where it happened. Demons, they... They trapped me in a prison. Some sort of magical fortress. They tried to break my mind, I – I begged them to let me go or to, to  _kill_ me.” He swallowed thickly. “Ever since then, I can’t stand it. Small spaces, closed off from the air.”

“And even though you  _know_ you can breathe, that there’s no logical reason for you to react like this...”

“... I’m out of my own control. As if I’m just watching myself from afar.”

“Like you’re not even in your own body. Or worse, you’re trapped in it, watching yourself crash. It feels like a dream. Your limbs feel fuzzy and you get this sickness so  _suddenly_.”

“Yes. That’s it.”

Triss smiled wanly. “So you see? Your  _head_ ,” she reached out and tousled his curls, “thinks you’re in danger and is trying to tell your  _body_ to get out of there.”

“That’s rather inconvenient.” Cullen hesitated to ask, unsure of the answer he would get. “How do  _you_ deal with it?”

The Inquisitor’s smile faded. “I just...  _do_ , I suppose. I avoid it as best I can, and when I  _am_ sent into a panic... Sometimes the herbalist will give me tablets of powdered elfroot. But they make me so woozy that I don’t take them outside of camp or Skyhold. Lavender oil, too.” She sighed sadly. “I remind myself that it can’t last forever and that my body is wrong. Cole helps me, too. He distracts me.”

Her eyes flickered up to meet his. “Maybe... Do you want to speak with him?”

Cullen released her hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure that I want anyone to know.”

“Cole isn’t  _anyone_ , Cullen. He won’t judge you. And neither will I, no matter what you choose.”

The commander was silent for a long time. Triss said nothing, instead waiting patiently for a reply. When he gave one, it came on a whisper.

“Will you come with me?”

A sad smile lit her face. “Always. But let’s get something hot for you to drink first. Trust me; it will help with the lightheadedness.”

Triss rose from the chair and draped his coat over his shoulders. He gave her a weak grin.

“Thank you.”

The Inquisitor pressed her lips to his forehead. She said nothing more. Nothing needed to be said.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. As always, feedback is appreciated and encouraged. Especially regarding this one. I'm nervous about it.


End file.
